There is a room where God
sits like a father of drugged son
or a run away daughter, 
and scribble congratulations 
to the martyrs for 
keeping up their insanity 
till the last minute.
The fault lines of his head
are left unoiled, like the rifles hidden on backpack of a depressd teenage boy.
His hands moves like a bug 
inside a glass bottle, circling 
with bandages of an artist.
Like a sea on a city in wall.
His walls are wails 
no one really cares about, melting like an egg yolk over a pan.
Like a red dress dancing in rain.
Like euthanized dreams.
He doesn't tell you that
Birth is a disaster, 
Life is a disease and 
Death is happiness.
So, you proclaim yourself 
as leader of broken hearts,
soaking in censored sunlight, without paying tear ducts for working overtime.
You are more woe than wonder,
more fragile than fulfillment,
more patchwork than perfection.
That's why god snarled 
looking at your Christmas letter.

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